Mary's Story
by the survivor
Summary: This is the modest story of the most important character in Silent Hill 2: Mary Sunderland. She is also one of the least fleshed out, and this short story hopes to explain who she is and how she came to be. It contains mild language suitable for young ad


"James, what will I ever do with you?" Mary chuckled to herself. Her eyes took in the photograph, looking past the glossy sheen to a couple standing before a large glimmering lake. "Always so serious, aren't you?" Again she laughed light heartedly. She was alone in her sterile, white wash room. From within she could look out into the hospital gardens, watching every day while people laughed and played, forever with out her it seemed. Loneliness was not all that bad; she felt better knowing that her husband did not have to look at her in this…this "state". Using the tips of her fingers, she shakily outlined the melancholy look of the man's face, even with a young girl's arms wrapped around his waist, kissing his head. Arms that were stronger and healthier, and lips that had been softer and sweeter. But Mr. Sunderland looked as young as ever, his short faded blonde bangs flopped over his brow. It had drove her mother mad how little of an interest her daughter's man had taken in his own appearance. He had learned to live on second-hand store clothes and a hair cut to match. His face was inked with the dark lines of a rough upbringing from a mother who drank too much and cared too little. All of it had just made Mary love her James even more. "Of course you are…" She stopped to cough. Blood, thick and dark, sat on the photo in small droplets. "Oh no, dear", she gasped and struggled through her blankets to find her handkerchief to wipe it away, "I'm so sorry James." The picture was worth more to her she could ever bring herself to say. She was too late though, as a physician entered with a nurse by him. Shelly was on the tail end of a twelve-hour night shift, and she wore the proof shrouded over her. Still, she was glad to assist the doctor with this patient, since she had never been any trouble and was in fact a very gentle soul.

"M'am." The middle aged man nodded as he sat down at the foot of Mary's bed, right on top of her laced handkerchief.

"How are you Doctor Philips?" she returned, her eye on the delicate treasure he'd just sat down on. Didn't he know what he'd done? That was a gift from her mother the day she'd wed James, becoming Mrs. Sunderland. It was a small wedding, with neither family being very wealthy. But regardless it had been the greatest day of her life; second only to all the days after Still she could not help the situation and drew her thin, pale arm to her chest, trying in vain to calm another torrent of deep coughs.

"Here you go, Miss." nurse Shelly rubbed her back and offered a sheet of tissue paper, forgetting how much Mary had hated the stiff, cold feel of hospital tissue.

"Thank you," she managed between coughs, "I have it under control, thank you very much." The nurse could see other wise, as she went to soak up the crimson fluid trickling down Mrs. Sunderland's chin with a towel. Doctor Philips eyed the frail woman like a hawk, analyzing her as best he could. Every time he looked at this patient, he was pressed with the same problem: how to tell someone they'd be dieing soon. Mrs. Sunderland had been quite the fighter throughout her disease, and from what he could tell she was reasonably kind in person also. Hardly older then his own younger sister, and to cap it all off she was married to a man she adored. "Who picks these peoples' times?" he had asked himself so many times that the sarcastic scorn at his creator was starting to lose meaning. Doctor Philips knew the facts, seen her signs and all but felt her suffering with her through this. Why wouldn't she die? He knew it would eventually take her, as it always did, and from a small place in him he wished for her death as a means of escape; she was less then one failed heart beat away from leaving this painful world behind. He had spent a fair share of time, even off the clock, comparing her case to previous ones; the odds had always been stacked against her. How was she holding on? Even the thickest thread was just a thread, and could still only last so long right?

"How is Mr. Sunderland doing these days? I get kept so busy I hardly have time for a handshake when he visits." He forced small talk while he scanned over his charts. To be honest, he hadn't remembered seeing the beloved Mr. Sunderland in quite some time.

"James keeps very busy with work." Mary moved a few stray from her face as her voice trailed off, "I'm afraid our…my medical bills put a lot of strain on our financial budget." Mary had a way with wearing her emotions on her sleeve. When she was glad, she lit up the room and if you stood close enough you'd swear the air itself had gotten warmer. But like wise, when she was hurt or sad, her eyes would move downward and betray the depression she had building up inside her. Her skin would pale, her voice would slow and even her beautiful crown of golden blonde hair lost its luster in a way. It was obviously and at the same time indescribably sad; like watching an angel die, if you could.

"I'm sure it will be alright. It's clear that he loves you very much. Soon you'll be back on your feet," Philips could only come to the end that the James she spoke so warmly of was in fact, whether he knew it or not, keeping his lover alive well beyond any one could expect, "and back into that picture of yours." Where was that thing anyway? Normally the girl clung to it like a child holds a doll, like it had the power to right every wrong in their world. 'If only…'

"I pray every night that he does," Mrs. Sunderland's gaze drew upon the doctor's lab chart, then to his eyes, "and that I will be..." Who can measure the power of love?

Nurse Shelly poured her patient a cold cub of water, and helped her up to sip it.

"No worries Mrs. Sunderland." The girl managed a smile for her favorite patient, even through her sleepless exhaustion. "Like my papa always said 'Troubled times can't last forever, Shelly.'"

Mary took a stab at some good humored, grim sarcasm, "But my name isn't Shelly."

The nurse grinned, "No, but they both end in a "y", and around here that's good enough." She sympathized for Mrs. Sunderland, and knew that if this was the most gruff she would give, Shelly still wanted her around. 'When she smiles, she shines.' Shelly thought to herself.

Dr. Phillips was glad to see Mrs. Sunderland joking around, something of a rarity lately. But at heart he was still a doctor, with the impatience of a business man, and he was more the ready to get the examination started. "Haven't you been eating Mrs. Sunderland?" he asked.

"Oh yes, I eat every meal they bring me." Mary motioned so weakly to the dinner tray some feet away, that if they hadn't known to look they might have missed the gesture all together. "Sometimes I don't finish most of my dinner, but I'm not really one to eat later in the evening, sir."

"I'm sure Miss Shelly would have no trouble getting your meals here a bit earlier if that would help." He glared slightly at the young nurse and then back to his patient. He knew she was young, as far as nurses go, but that didn't excuse the poor observation of his patients eating habits; especially one becoming as weak as Mrs. Sunderland.

"No, no. She has offered many times," Mary smiled softly at Shelly, then leaned over to her doctor and whispered playfully, "I just like to keep up a nice figure for my husband." Mr. Philips hadn't been in a bed in so long, he was sure he'd forget what one looked like soon enough.

"M'am, I hardly agree that you should be worrying about outward appearances with your health." He was quite stern when he felt it necessary.

"Yes, well…" Mary's eyes sank down to her lap and her voice grew sad, "in the evening food seems to make me a little queasy, so I usually only sip whatever soup they bring me. I leave the meat alone." Queasy was a bit of an understatement. Two weeks ago, for around five days straight, she had thrown up her dinner not a half hour after eating. She recalled the pool of blood and puss swirling in and out of chunky half eaten ham slices. It had horrified her to wits end, and she finally decided that she would concentrate nourishing herself on breakfast and lunch, since she never seemed sick during those times for some odd reason.

"Well then I'd like you to start drinking milk, or maybe a supplement shake, in the evenings. Even our sickest patients have an easy time keeping them down, and it will at least give you a bit of nourishment. Okay?"

"And if I…" The doctor had feeling she'd put up a bit of resistance. These patients…the worse they get, the more desperate they are to get better. Usually that meant going with what they thought was best, regardless of their physicians instructions. The veteran he had to see next had been caught twice that week smoking his favorite cigarette brand, which his own son had snuck in for him. He enjoyed his habit, and saw no reason for stomach, throat and lung cancer to stop him. Many times Mr. Philips had become convinced that these patients belonged in a mental institute, not his hospital. Regardless, he had already readied a response for Mrs. Sunderland.

"I'll have an I.V. drip ordered for you if you still can't seem to keep anything down at night. Don't worry, I'm not pushing you to eat; just try to do what you can." Mary relaxed back, too tired to fight her doctor any further, and gave in to his instructions. Looked like she'd be having milk with her soup tonight. God, how she hated milk…

"Now that that's settled," Doctor Philips squinted at his gold wrist watch. Med class had been hard, and the shifts now were hell, but he was definitely well into enjoying the fiscal benefits of being a head doctor and surgeon. Still, he'd pay a lot of money for even a few hours of shut eye right now. "I'd like to listen to your breathing before I go. Miss Shelly?" The nurse followed her cue and gently helped her patient forward, lifting her shirt up enough for the doctor to listen. Her superior's work had always fascinated her, though in this particular case she had no wish to take his place. There had been times late at night when the patients slept and the other nurses enjoyed the fruits and labors of the discount cafeteria downstairs, where she tried to imagine the sounds he heard in this woman. What did dieing sound like? With each breathe, blood entered and exited, filling her lungs, drowning her from the inside out. She would let her imagination fill her ears with this sound, the thick mix of blood and pussy infection shifting from side to side; until she starred straight ahead, the sound enveloping her. It would weigh on her, and her shoulders would slump as if the thought of this only being a fraction of the young woman's suffering had hypnotized her. Another nurse had even shook her half out of her chair before she snapped too. But she never told a soul of this, it was almost too awful to bear herself; surely if her coworkers knew, they'd begin to leer at her from afar, whispering back and forth about the biziarre young nurse who heard noises no one else heard.

"Well that's that isn't it. Thank you Shelly." The young doctor wrapped his instrument around his neck and scribbled on his chart. By the third month in the hospital, Mary had pretty much discovered the code behind her physicians words. He was a frank man, but generally kind and didn't seem to enjoy giving his patients bad news. It was practically scientific formula that when she was improving, he told her. When she was declining in health, and he wasn't quite ready to reveal this to her, he would hesitate then prescribed her some drug that would undoubtedly lead to a faster recovery. Mary looked up weakly at him, and waited for his answer. He starred through his chart, looking for the words he needed.

'Just tell it how it is.' Her thoughts flared to hate, unusual for calm and kindly Mary.

"I'm seeing some improvement," He stammered.

'Oh my god, let it be' inside her heart tensed with hope.

"And I think I can get you some meds that are really going to get you on the right track."

'You son of a bitch' somewhere inside her she felt the hole that had been growing for years just get that much bigger.

"I'd say easily that if we push these drugs, you'll be able to go home in two, maybe only a month." He put on the warmest smile he could fake, and walked out of the room to finish his rounds. Mary sat back, pushed her long blonde bangs back up into her pony tail and stared at the wall. Between the stress and the disappointment, it was fortunate that looks couldn't kill. The whole hospital would be up in flames before her first blink.

"Don't worry miss." Nurse Shelly reached down and picked up the crinkled handkerchief, and gently folded it in her hands. "Doc Philips really knows his stuff. If he says you'll get better, you bet your Sunday tithing on it." She smiled and laid the white lace on Mary's leg. Hate turned to hurt and seething rage to sorrow when she looked up into the young girls face. At that moment Mary wanted to tell the girl everything about life that she knew, and to never take any second of it for granted at any age. If she'd learned anything in here, it was that no one was too young to die. Especially the young. But when she opened her mouth even slightly, the words were pushed aside to make room for a fit of coughs. She counted herself lucky; no blood.

"Good night Mrs. Sunderland"

"Thank you Shelly, good night." Mary reached up from the end table by her bed for her photo from her and James' honeymoon in Silent Hill. She went to wipe it off, but stopped in horror. The blood had hardened on top of it, blotting her face and body almost completely from the picture, leaving James standing alone, spattered in conjealed blood. After that the picture became wet again, as her tears poured onto it and she thought to herself, 'Oh James, please don't forget me when I die soon."


End file.
